We had a poo/throw up incident. I handled it. I’m not some rookie. I really actually had a stressful week, and I thought I was handling it all very well.

I was apparently wrong. Very, very wrong indeed.

One more teeny-weeny little thing happened, and it actually made me crazy. Not garden variety crazy, but actual eye-spinning, 14 days or less in the psych ward insanity crazy. So – congratulations! If you’ve been reading my blog since inception, well, it will give you absolutely no advantage on this Pop Quiz. Participation is mandatory. This is the only test of the semester, and your final grade is based solely on your performance herein. Mark your answers clearly and erase all hesitation marks. We do not allow hesitation of any kind around here. This is motherhood, for crying out loud.

* Hint: All answers are “C.”

(1) When my preschooler confessed that the likely reason for throwing up was due to his curiosity earlier in the day to find out what “fresh poop” tasted like, I:

(A) Was horrified and completely grossed out, but still managed to inquire WHOSE poop he ate, causing Preschooler to respond indignantly, “Mom, you think I would eat someone ELSE’s poop!? That would be gross.”or(B) Thanked God that Preschooler actually distinguished and/or had a preference for fresh poo versus not fresh poo, then laughed and remembered the lawyer who the secretaries claimed ate “poo flakes” for breakfast, then imagined my Preschooler growing up eating poo flakes, then laughed hysterically, and was then admonished by my Preschooler that it “wasn’t funny.”or(C) Both.

(2) I was coping. Right up until I found Husband’s abandoned wings, watch, and wedding ring by the bathroom sink. Between the hours of 4 and 8 pm I:

(A) Cried. The entire time.or(B) Washed four days worth of dishes, made zucchini bread in three different shapes and ingredient variations, cleaned fuzzballs out of the children’s closets, made homemade chicken soup while cleaning out the refrigerator, laid out both children’s wardrobes for the entire week, coordinated all babysitting needs for the foreseeable future even though I knew it would change before I got to the next event, completely rewrote the family whiteboard calendar even though I knew it would change before I got to the next event, organized the school snack pantry, scrubbed the living daylights out of the shower, cleaned out the guinea pig cage with one hand while holding my nose with the other, and mowed the lawn in a perfect cross-hatch pattern the likes of which has never been seen, not even at Wrigley Field, and continuously lectured Preschooler about the virtues of not eating your own poo, fresh or not fresh.or(C) Both.

(3) After the tasks in #2 were complete I:

(A) Cried some more, but not in front of the kids, especially not while tucking them in for the night and saying prayers, especially not when they told me how much they missed their Daddy, and certainly not when they cried describing how they wanted to just get one little snuggle from him because Skype just isn’t the same as a real hug, and because (poop eating boy added this one) you can’t actually smell really cool toots on there.or(B) Retreated to my room and wrote an uber-sappy text message describing how much I missed him, then immediately felt better, but then immediately felt worse, because it would probably make him feel horrible, because there was nothing he could do about it, then realized in horror what I had done, then felt worse, then tried to make up for it by sending a silly/funny message concerning zucchini bread creations, then realized it wasn’t that funny, and then realized that I sounded (and possibly was) completely schizophrenic, and then realized I didn’t care, and then cried.(C) You guessed it.

The Catalyst that Defined my Weekend.

EXTRA CREDIT: True or False?

After finishing her crying, she checked on the kids. Preschooler, as usual, was still awake. She went in for one last hug. As she left his bedroom he announced in his super sweet sleepy voice, “Mom, you know what? I love you. And if I were a dog I would eat my own puke.”